


14 days

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22731211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: My contributions to the 14 days of DA lovers on tumblr. Actually 13 days as day 9 was a drawing.Only the last chapter is explicit, the rest can probably be classified from general to teen and up.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair & Surana (Dragon Age), Anders/Female Hawke, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Trevelyan, Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Original Character(s), Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Female Lavellan/Sera, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fenris/Merrill, Zevran Arainai/Brosca
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Day 1: Rose (Alistair x Neria Surana)

Alistair thumbed the flower absent-mindedly. The petals were beginning to wilt at the edges. Amazing, really, that it had lasted this long.

She entered the tent in a flurry, throwing herself onto the bedroll with a huff. "What's that?" 

"What?" 

Neria turned and glared at him. " _ That _ . You just tucked it under your bedroll."

"My bedroll? Oh. This?" He fished under the straw mattress, and the rose emerged bent and squashed. 

"What's it for?" 

"What's…? It's a rose." He brandished it like a limp sword. "It's not for anything."

"But you're carrying it around." Neria plucked it out of his hand and twirled it, a faint frown on her brow. "It must mean something."

"Nothing at all," he said breezily. "Just a rose."

She concentrated. The browned edges of the petals pinkened and unfurled; the stem slowly straightened. 

"How did you -" 

She shrugged. "Something like healing. I'm not sure. Anyway," she said, handing the rose back to him, "here's your flower. Have fun with it."

He accepted it with numb fingers.  _ It's for you,  _ he thought,  _ it's supposed to be for you.  _ But she had somehow made it fresher, cleaner, more fragrant. Was there anything he could offer her, anything at all? 

Alistair tucked the rose away in a corner of the tent and lay awake, imagining lips soft like petals. 


	2. Day 2: Holding hands (Blackwall x Isobel Trevelyan)

She had fine hands. Slender yet strong, pale with a dusting of red freckles across the knuckles. A warrior's hands, roughened from sword work. 

"Blackwall?" 

He realised that he was looking at her outstretched hand like it was a snake poised to bite him. Raising his eyes, he saw the soft curve of her smile, the sparkle in her kind green eyes. 

"My lady, I -"  _ That isn't my name, even if I've come to love hearing it from your lips.  _

"We've moved past that, haven't we?" she said, her smile widening to a grin. "Isobel."

"Isobel." His thick tongue made mockery of her name, gravel catching in his unworthy throat. "Is it wise?" 

"It's just a hand, Blackwall. We've been up to worse by the stables."

"That's the stables. This is the Great Hall."  _ Dignitaries. Ambassadors. Orlesians. Wardens. All those eyes on her, on him.  _ Oh, how he would love to take that hand in his. To press his lips to her pale wrist, to crush her against him and never, never let her go. 

"We're not a secret."

_ I wish we were.  _ The report burned a hole in his pocket.  _ I would spare you the humiliation to come, my lady. Isobel.  _

Her fingers twitched, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her refined features. "Please," she said. "I need you beside me today. The Wardens…" Newly conscripted, raw in their shame and confusion. "I need you, Blackwall."

"And I am yours, my - Isobel."  _ Liar. Traitor. Coward. She'll be better off when you're gone.  _

Her hair was flame. Her eyes were the placid green of a Hinterlands field. Her smile was sunshine. "Will you take my hand, then?" 

She deserved better. His clumsy hand closed around hers, large and uncouth, hairy as a beast's paw. And her fingers slipped between his, natural as a kiss. She squeezed, and he felt her fingers tighten around his heart. 

"Lead on," he said gruffly. "I'll follow you."


	3. Day 3: Bow and Arrow (Solas x Rhia Lavellan)

Dawn brought tendrils of mist over the hills and valleys of Crestwood; the ground was still sodden underfoot as Rhea padded quietly away from camp. 

Petrichor, crushed herbs and embrium. Save the pungent scent of wet druffalo, she might have been home in the forests of the Free Marches. 

_ Home.  _ She snorted quietly to herself as she bent to harvest a patch of elfroot. It had never felt like home, except the moments she could steal to herself. Quiet hours spent gathering plants and mushrooms, her feet bare and her bow slung over her shoulder. 

The merest rustle, the snap of a twig breaking and she had an arrow nocked and ready to fly. It was a hart, blinking slowly at her through the mist. Curious, but not quite fearful. 

_ Beautiful.  _ With his long, graceful neck and dark-lashed eyes.  _ Guide my arrow, Lady of the Hunt. Bring him a swift death.  _ His hide would be cured for leather; his flesh would feed the soldiers of the keep and the embattled villagers. It was the  _ Vir Adahlen:  _ she would mourn his loss, but not regret his sacrifice. 

Sudden wrongness: the hair rose on the back of her neck.  _ You are prey.  _ She spun, her steel-tipped arrow aimed squarely at this new threat. 

"Peace, vhenan." If Solas was alarmed, he did not let it show. Mildly affronted, but that was show - no, he was  _ amused.  _ A puzzle for later: the hart had taken fright and was bounding away through the undergrowth. So much for her clean shot. 

_ "Fenhedis." _

Beside her - how had he crept so close? - Solas raised a hand, and with a crackle of energy the hart fell dead on the ground. 

"Cheat," she said, and he raised an eyebrow. 

"I use the tools at my disposal, as do you." Clasping his hands behind his back, he stared down at the fallen creature with a detached sort of sorrow. "Without magic or a bow and arrow, the hart may have had the advantage. One party always does. There are no fair fights."

As if he needed to tell her that. She could project confidence all she liked, but he had a way of making her feel like a child negotiating her first steps. Here, her bow and arrow were useless. She had only one weapon at her disposal and she used it now, claiming his space and tilting her face up for a kiss.

His eyes softened; he reached out and pushed back a tendril of hair, stuck to her skin in the damp air. 

"Cheat," he murmured before claiming her mouth, and she wound an arm around his neck to disguise the fact that her lower body had apparently begun to melt. The kiss had the desired effect. When he pulled away his eyes were glassy, his breath irregular. 

"There are no fair fights," she reminded him. "Vhenan, if you've ruined this hide I'm going to be very displeased." She skipped to the hart's side, or did she float? A quick murmured blessing to Andruil. It truly had been a beautiful creature. 

She looked up to find Solas regarding her with a small frown of displeasure. 

"What is it?" 

"Nothing, vhenan." With a shake of his head the expression was banished, fast enough to make her doubt it had ever existed. He extended a hand. "Shall we make our way back to camp? You can send the scouts out for the remains."

Steam rose from the wet ground, caught golden in the light of the risen sun. He seemed almost otherworldly in the warm light; from the look in his eyes, so did she. 

_ I will solve you, vhenan,  _ she promised, and brushed a quick kiss across the back of his knuckles. His laughter rang out, rich and clear. 

"You are full of surprises," he said approvingly. 

She tugged his hand, leading them back towards the cluster of Inquisition tents. "Just you wait," she said lightly.  _ Just you wait.  _


	4. Day 4: Napping together (Sera x Pip Lavellan)

Sera's lying on her belly in the window seat, legs kicking idly in the air as she scrawls in one of her notebooks. It's Pip's favourite place in Skyhold, her own quarters included - it reminds her in some way of the inside of an aravel, but she wouldn't tell Sera that. Brighter, though, full of colour and life. Full of  _ Sera _ . 

Cross-legged on the floor, Pip can't help but watch her: the scrunch of her nose when the words won't flow right, the way silent laughter shakes her body at some private joke. Sun streaming through the glass behind her makes Pip squint, and from there it becomes a battle to keep her eyes open. 

"Oi," she hears, and snaps her head up. "Shiny. You falling asleep on me?" 

"Sorry." She scrubs the back of a hand across her eyes. She can't shake the feeling that she should be doing something,  _ anything  _ \- but with her advisors and most of her forces still returning from the Arbor Wilds, there's precious little to be done. 

"Don't be daft." Sera sits up and pats the seat next to her. "Now's good a time as any to take a rest. But if you are gonna fall asleep on me, you should fall asleep  _ on  _ me. Gettit?" 

"I need to…" What, she doesn't know. The threat seems so immediate, but she's not a strategist. Just a skinny elf who stumbled into leadership and survived through blind luck. 

But not just luck, she thinks, climbing up and sinking her head into Sera's lap. Support. Friendship.  _ Love.  _

Sera grumbles a little about  _ bony frigging elves  _ and  _ pointy shoulders _ , shuffling around until she's half-leaning on Pip, the two of them curled in a little pile. 

"Before," Sera says, the words spilling out of her the way they do when she's uncertain or embarrassed, "when I told you about my dream, and I said all that bollocks about the temple, and the Dalish and whatever -" 

"Didn't we say we'd forget about it?" She's too sleepy to even look up, fingers curling around Sera's knee to show  _ no harm done.  _

"Yeah, well I say a lot of shite, if you hadn't noticed." Sera's fingers cover Pip's own. "And you never treat me like I'm stupid."

"Because you're not."

"Well  _ I  _ know that. Doesn't stop some others though, does it? But sometimes I can  _ be  _ stupid. Because I'm pissed off, or…scared, I s'pose. You'd have been right to tell me to fuck off."

"I wouldn't have been right," she murmurs, and I don't want you to fuck off." There's more she wants to say: she understands, she  _ does.  _ But when she struggles up Sera pushes her gently back down. 

"Nap time, Shiny. Sera's orders."

"Are you still?" she manages to ask. 

"Still stupid? Off and on."

"Scared."

"Course I bloody am. Can't love you and not be scared. You're all mixed up in everything."

"Me too," she confesses. "Scared shitless, all the time."

Sera strokes her hair and yawns. "I won't tell if you don't."

"We fit, though, don't we?" 

"Much as a couple of skinny bloody elves can, yeah."

Pip lets out a small huff of laughter. "Clickety-clack?" She lifts a hand to Sera's face, feeling her smile. 

"Clickety-clack, Shiny."


	5. Day 5: Love letter (Anders x Alyse Hawke)

Anders,

It's been a fucker of a week, love. Or a month, a year…it's hard to remember the last time I didn't want to throw it all in. Probably before I left you. 

I made it out of Adamant, not that you'll know what that means. Not without a cost, paid by someone else, which seems to be the way of it. Long story short, you were right about the Wardens. Crazy arseholes. 

Anyway, it's been a while since I've seen this much death. You know the last time. At least everyone signed up for it this time, more or less

(fuck) 

And there I go again starting a fight. I never could keep my mouth shut, or say the right thing. I'm not letting you off the hook - I think you enjoyed it in a way, having something to argue with that had a face and wasn't an institution, or a philosophy. I mean killing people can be therapeutic - and we killed plenty of Templars - but it's not the same as having your say. Putting things into words, and having words thrown back at you. And I can't get out of playing Void's advocate, for some reason. It's a sickness. 

Heal me? 

I want to say that I'm sorry for every fight. For every time I disagreed with you out of sheer fucking force of habit, for every time I let you goad me into another fight, or I did the same to you. I don't think it's healthy, Anders, this thing we have, but I'd kill to keep it. Because despite appearances, I do love you. 

What else? Cullen is here. I've mostly left him alone, because of history, and because I'm not cruel. At least I try, and sometimes succeed, not to be cruel. Anyway he's in love, and disgustingly so, with a mage of all people. Worse, she's just as smitten with him! 

Now before you start (and I know you'll start) she's not without agency. She's the Inquisitor, and she knows her own mind. I don't doubt she'll throw him out the window if he reverts to type, she's not as forgiving as you or me. 

It made me think of a thing you said to me that night (you know which), that some day someone like you would love someone like me…I forget the rest. It was a long night, Anders. 

And while I'm sure you'd be disgusted at me comparing us to Cullen and _anybody_ , you can't deny that she's a mage…and as far as I can tell, nobody would blink an eye to know they were shagging. It's a brave new world, my love.

Was it worth it? I'm not going to pretend to know the answer.

I miss you, Anders. I miss your scratchy face and those silly noises you make when we kiss. I miss your shoulders and your back and your narrow hips, your clever, healing fingers. I even miss the way your eyes squint and your nose wrinkles when you're annoyed (that's going to become permanent you know, especially if you keep me around). I miss your scent and your skin and _you_ , Anders, I fucking miss you. 

I hope it's still warm where you are. I hope people are finding your clinic and the dry air is keeping the fevers away, and you haven't taken on more cats than you can handle. I hope I'll make my way back to you soon and we'll manage to talk without acrimony, without miscommunication, without all the fucking bullshit that weighs us down. 

I don't know what to make of this Inquisition. I think they're just ( _you know who_ would approve) and they're doing things for the right reasons. But they're an organisation, and I never met one of those that didn't have some rot within. I know without doubt that this message wouldn't make it out unread, much less untraced. 

That's why, love, I'm going to sign it. Then I'll seal it. Then I'll burn it, and hope the ashes make themselves to you somehow. Or that when I see you again (I will, I _will_ ) I'll find the courage to say these things to your face without being sharp and unkind and stupid. 

I don't hold out much hope - I don't know why you put up with me Anders, I really don't. But I love you. Beyond miles, beyond reason. I love you. 

Yours ( _yours, yours, yours_ ) 

Alyse Hawke


	6. Day 6: Fighting together (Krem x Caro Gault)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 6-8 are a bit of a 3-shot featuring a non-protagonist character from What Stays and What Fades Away.

It was hard to say when he first noticed her: a scout among hundreds of scouts, and she kept her head down. As they made their tortuous way to Adamant the camps eddied and scattered according to the landscape. 

Faces around the mess tent changed night by night, but after a time she sank into Krem's consciousness. Dark eyes, dark hair, a build so slight as to be almost elvish. She smiled when it was polite, kept her head down. Didn't seem to want to be noticed. 

He couldn't help it; he noticed her. 

And now, improbably, he found himself fighting at her side. Inquisition trebuchets shattered the walls of Adamant, and out trickled demons like ants from a broken nest. 

_ The chief will hate this.  _ He was fighting within the walls, closer to the Inquisitor. Krem could only hope the lot of them were keeping each other safe. 

The Chargers were a cohesive unit, but they'd never faced this exactly: rage, despair, desire, pride all at once. At least this time they had forces fighting at their side. 

And what forces! Cullen's troops were a well oiled machine, each unit sure in its purpose and every man and woman giving their all. The scouts were as adept in combat as in their more mundane field operations; Krem lost count of the times he saw a life saved by a timely arrow or the flash of daggers. 

Until his people and a pocket of soldiers had a despair demon cornered against a collapsed wall. The blighted thing kept dancing out of reach of their weapons and the rubble was unsteady enough to make leaping after it a folly. 

He couldn't say which was worse, the shards of ice it threw out, or the choking miasma of hopelessness that followed in its wake. They were wearing it down, but not quickly enough. He saw one green soldier nearly put down his sword, only steeling himself at the last minute. 

Then there she was, tiny and fierce in her ichor-spattered scout jacket. Spinning her staff - her  _ staff? -  _ once, and slamming it on the ground. The thing caught fire all at once, its tattered robes going up like dry tinder. It screeched and swerved about even as the loose grey skin melted from its face. She was perfectly still, jaw set until it was nothing but ashes on the dry desert air. 

Then she caught his eye, ducking her head as she tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear. 

_ Well look at you, Krem-de-la-Krem,  _ he could almost hear the boss say.  _ Sweet on a mage.  _

"You saved our arses," he croaked, feeling oddly self-conscious. Around them the fighters took advantage of the sudden lull in battle, stretching wearied limbs and shaking off the remnants of despair. "Thanks."

"You would have killed it." Her voice had an Orlesian lilt. "It was weakened."

"Saved us some time, then," he said with a grin. "I'm Krem."

"I know," she said, glancing away. "I've seen you around."

Had he been so obviously staring, those nights in camp? 

"At the Herald's Rest," she clarified. 

"No." She raised an eyebrow, and he stammered, "I would have noticed. I mean…I have a good memory for faces."  _ I'd remember yours, at least.  _

"I mostly sit upstairs. It's quieter away from the music."

"You don't like the music?" 

"Well enough," she answered with a shrug. "Less than some." Krem found himself lost for words, and with a smile she extended a small palm. "Caroline. Call me Caro."

"Krem," he said, grasping her hand. 

"Yes," she said softly. "I know."

There was a screech from overhead; as chilling as the cry of despair but amplified, a million knives drawn across slate. 

Their eyes met, panicked. 

"Were you in Haven?" he asked. 

"Yes."

"The Wardens have lain down arms! Defences are down!" Shouted word came along the line. "Target the demons!" 

"What in the bloody Void did they think we were doing?" Krem muttered. "Chargers! To the fortress!" He looked down: somehow, he still had her hand. "Stick with us? You seem a good person to have around."

Her smile may be sweet, but her grin was perfection.  _ "Très bien,  _ Krem, _ "  _ she said, stepping to his side. Her head was barely higher than his shoulder. "I had planned on going that way anyway. Let's fight together."


	7. Day 7: Love birds (Krem x Caro Gault)

It was weeks until Krem saw her again; he vaulted out of his chair at the Herald's Rest so fast, Skinner asked him if they'd called last drinks. He rushed up the stairs without answering. 

At the top he slowed: there was enthusiasm, then over-eagerness, then a concerning intensity, and he felt he'd crossed at least one of those lines already. 

Sutherland and his crew were out in the field. All that remained on the second floor was a handful of solitary drinkers, and a giggling couple in the corner. She had placed herself far across the room, her back to the stairwell. 

"Ahem," said Krem. "Caro, isn't it?" As if he could have forgotten; as if he hadn't spent the last weeks hunting down any scrap of story he could find to add to the picture in his head. 

She half turned, her profile finely etched in the torchlight. "Krem."

"Can I sit? Sorry, I should have brought you a drink."

"I have a drink."

He took a chair, wiping his palms surreptitiously on his knees. "I should have brought  _ me _ a drink, then. How have you been? I lost track of you after the battle."

"Yes." Her soft voice was difficult to hear even in the muffled din upstairs. "I am sorry I didn't say goodbye."

"You saved my life half a dozen times, no need to apologise."

Finally she smiled. "And you mine."

"I wanted…" Maker, how did you ask a girl out? The women he'd been with up until now had been a bit more…forthcoming. What if he was just annoying her and she was too polite to say so? "I can go if you want," he blurted. "I asked around about you. You might think it's a bit weird."

Her expression became wary. "Oh? And what do they say about me?" 

_ You blighted idiot, Krem.  _ What was he supposed to say now? Did she need to hear that her only family, a twin brother, died after the Conclave fell? That she'd come to Haven to kill the Templar who'd - no. She didn't need to hear it. She'd lived it, and she knew that he knew. 

"They say that…you're Orlesian."

Caro's smile was tight-lipped. "Somebody should alert the Inquisitor," she said, looking down at her drink. "It seems we have a new spymaster."

"It doesn't matter." He tried to force a casual air, but urgency made his voice crack. "Everyone has a past."

It wasn't enough. She shrank in on herself, cradling her tankard in those small hands. "Goodbye, Krem."

It was a dismissal too clear to be ignored, but he lingered a moment longer. "Will you be around for a while? In Skyhold?" 

"I go to Sahrnia at the end of the week."

"I'd like to see you." _Krem,_ _what are you doing? She said goodbye._ "Just once or twice, maybe. If you just don't like me I'll go away for good, but if you think there's something about you I won't like…I'm pretty sure you're wrong."

The silence stretched beyond awkwardness; he turned to leave. 

"I only ever cared about one person."

He turned back. She spoke from behind a curtain of black hair, eyes still fixed on her drink. 

"I got him killed."

"A demon killed your brother."

"No." Her knuckles whitened and the curtain of hair shook. "I brought him there. I put him on that mountain."

"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plenty of people were that day."

Caro shuddered. "Why do you want to see me, Krem?" 

"I like to hear you speak," Krem said simply. "I like seeing you smile." He shrugged, not sure if she even saw him. "I'd like to give you more reasons to."

She moved a trembling hand to tuck her hair back. "I can't promise."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

  
  


Downstairs, the Chargers glanced up as Krem's chair screeched into place. All except the chief, who raised a single eyebrow. 

"Ooh, one of the love birds has fallen out of the nest!" 

"Kiss my arse, Dalish," he said without rancour. 

"You good, Krem?" 

He took a long draught of ale to hide his grin. "Getting there, chief."


	8. Day 8: Patching Up (Krem x Caro Gault)

It was the worst pain he'd ever felt. Worse even than pain: the red shard buried in his side thrummed with wrongness, a corrupt force leaching into his system. 

Krem lay on the lush grass of the Arbor Wilds and watched birds fly overhead, a riot of noise and colour. He wondered if he was dying. 

_ "Stitches!"  _ he heard somebody scream.  _ "Get Stitches!"  _

Hadn't he been with them? There'd been the river, and they'd beaten the Warden forces back over the bank and into some overgrown ruins…and then the Templar monsters, horrors of red crystal and twisted flesh. But they were winning. They were winning, and then - 

He winced as he craned his neck to see the damage. Such a small thing, really. It felt the width of a man's arm but it was little more than the size of an arrow. Shrapnel from an exploding behemoth, it had punched through his armour before he'd even registered the danger. 

_ "Where the fuck is Stitches?"  _

_ "Skinner is getting him. Hold on Krem, you tough bastard."  _

_ "Someone's coming!"  _

_ "Just scouts." _

There was only one scout he wanted to see. Would he die here, now, when they'd barely held hands? 

"Kr eyes and the tremble of her hands betrayed her smile. "You're getting blood all over me."

"Can you heal?" Dalish asked, and she laughed bitterly."

"I can't heal a flea bite. You?"

"Same." Dalish didn't even pretend she wasn't a mage; it must be serious. 

"Get it out," he rasped. 

"We can't do that," Caro said, "it might be the only thing stopping you from bleeding out."

He tried to keep the rising panic from his voice. "It's killing me. I can feel it -  _ please, _ just  _ get it out of me." _

"Skinner, what the fuck? Where's Stitches?" 

"Elbow-deep in guts," the elf said with characteristic bluntness. "He'll be as quick as he can."

Caro chewed her lip. "I might be able to cauterise the wound. But I've never tried it. I might just burn you to death."

A spike of red-rotten pain lanced through his side. "I'll take those odds."

"You're a fool."

"Humour me." He blinked as a drop fell on his face. Rain? The skies were blue. 

"Help me loosen these straps," Caro was saying. "We'll need to take the plate off at the same time to staunch the wound." 

By his side, Grim grunted in affirmation. He'd patched up his share of wounds. But not like this. Not for anyone who'd pulled through, that was. They began to work at his buckles. 

"Wait." He batted her hands away as she reached for his breastplate. Breathing heavily, he crossed his hands over his chest. "Just wait."

"It will hurt," she said. "If we had some elfroot -" 

"It's not that."

"Let her work, idiot." 

He turned to Grim in disbelief - it was the longest speech he'd ever heard from the man.

"You want to die?" he continued. "Get out of the fucking way. Nobody cares."

Caro was looking between them with a frown. "We can wait, Krem. Wait for your medic." Still, she unwrapped the scarf from around her neck ready for use as a compress. 

"No." It burned; it crawled. "Take it out."

Still he clutched at his breastplate. 

She misunderstood. "I've seen scars before, if that's what you're afraid of."

"That's not it."

"Then what?" There was an edge of frustration to her voice. 

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. With an effort he moved his shaking hands to his sides. "Do it."

Caro handed Grim the scarf. "Be ready to press this to the wound. We need to pull the shard first, then the armour. Unless it won't come out. Then we have to pull it all at once. Let's hope that's not how it goes." She hesitated in reaching for the shard. "Maker, that feels wrong."

Grim grunted. Without a word he grabbed the base of the shard and yanked; it slid out as easily as it had gone in, and he tossed it aside with a scowl. 

"Now." As a team they pulled the breastplate free, sticky with blood. Caro pulled up his undertunic and Grim pressed the scarf to the wound. It hurt like a bastard, but the wrong feeling had lessened.

"It's clean, as far as I can see." Caro joined Grim in pressing on the scarf; her little weight was a token addition at best. "No viscera poking out. That's good, no?" She shook her head. "I think we can wait. I don't want to make it worse."

Krem searched her face. His bindings were exposed, there could be no doubt. "I wanted to tell you. I would have."

"Tell me?" Her eyes met his, concern mingling with relief. "Oh." Fingers brushed the edge of his blood-soaked bindings. "Is this what you were so worried about?" 

"It's not nothing."

"But it is." She cupped his cheek and pressed her forehead to his, and his heart skipped erratically. "I don't care about that, you silly boy." Soft lips pressed to his, and he couldn't be quite sure he was still conscious. The pain was still there, certainly - but it seemed so, so unimportant. 

"Stitches is here. Get out of the way." Skinner, hopelessly unromantic. 

"I'll be right here." Caro kissed him again. "Right by your side."

"Promise?" he whispered, and she grinned, or was it sunshine breaking through the forest canopy?

"This, I promise."

Then Stitches was there, with potions and poultices and a needle and thread, and Krem fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

  
  
  



	9. Day 9: Bee (mine) (Sera x Pip Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9, aka why I mostly stick to writing


	10. Day 10: Surprise kiss (Dorian x Owen Trevelyan)

Day 10: Surprise kiss

Owen Trevelyan had always been fascinated by magic: as a boy he pored over illustrations of griffons and dragons, devouring folk tales of witches and enchantments and talking animals. 

"You shouldn't let him read that nonsense," his mother said. "He'll turn into a mage."

Bann Trevelyan peered over his spectacles - the finest in dwarven craftsmanship - and blinked mildly. "I'm quite sure that's not how it works."

"How will he ever be a templar? He won't know which side he's on."

"I don't think it's supposed to be about sides, dear." 

Lady Trevelyan sniffed. "I see where he gets it from."

Thankfully for his mother, Owen's sense of adventure extended to a love of swords and rough-and-tumble play. A dutiful but indifferent Andrastian, he was considered too old at ten for templar training, but utterly unsuited to clerical work. 

"We'll send him out to squire. It will do him good to be around boys his own age."

Owen had been a late addition: a surprise, or an accident, depending on his mother's mood. She looked at her youngest son doubtfully. "I just don't want him to be bullied."

"Stop bullying him then, dear." The bann returned to his book. 

Squiring agreed with Owen exceptionally well. 

"He's progressing well," said Bann Trevelyan over his morning letters. "Very popular with the other boys, evidently." 

Lady Trevelyan choked genteelly on her tea. "Not too popular, I hope."

Her husband peered over his spectacles. "You're a hard woman to please, dear."

Owen returned home to Ostwick in his eighteenth year. Described variously as "strapping", "honourable to a fault", "affable", and a host of other complimentary things, he had distinguished himself in tourneys and skirmishes alike. He was, everyone agreed, a credit to his house. 

Lady Trevelyan looked her son up and down. Tall and broad with a mop of straw-coloured hair and a radiant grin, he was already gaining a reputation as the handsomest youth in Ostwick. 

She pursed her lips. 

They held a ball to celebrate his homecoming. Owen danced every dance, no more than once or twice with the same partner. People seemed drawn to him. 

"I wish you wouldn't lead those poor girls on, Owen."

He looked down at his mother with a mock-wounded expression. "What makes you think I'm leading them on, mother dear?" 

"Oh,  _ Owen." _

He laughed and kissed her on the cheek, and she couldn't help but smile. 

Owen Trevelyan loved magic. He walked the streets of Haven with a grin, his cheeks ruddied by the cold.  _ Mages,  _ real  _ mages,  _ everywhere he looked. Some were half-starved, some surly, many too nervous to look anyone in the eye, but to him they may as well have been exotic butterflies. 

"Is it true a dragon used to live here?" he asked the tavern keeper. 

"That's what they say, ser," she said with a shrug. 

"How wonderful!" he said, and tipped her richly enough that she forgave him for being a bit strange, and wondered if he were single. 

He was. Lady Trevelyan had farewelled him with a kiss, a thick woollen scarf, and a murmured,  _ perhaps you'll meet a nice man over there. _

_ For you, mother, I'll try,  _ he'd answered, and swept her into a bone-crushing hug. 

He hadn't spent the past five years idle. He'd served in his father's guard, with such distinction that any suggestions of nepotism were quickly abandoned. He'd helped strengthen trade agreements with Markham and Ansburg, and turned down half a dozen marriage contracts with such charm that nobody felt any offense (but more than one young lady was left a touch disappointed). He bested some of the best fighters in the Free Marches at tourney. And, of course, he read. 

None of this entirely prepared him for what was to come. 

Owen Trevelyan loved magic - that didn't mean he wanted a mysterious, sometimes bad-humoured magical mark embedded in his hand. He loved the idea of dragons, but there was nothing exciting about having one attack his home. The novelty of demons wore off at his first encounter. 

He loved magic; and while it didn't cross into fetish, it wouldn't be true to say he'd never thought of having a mage lover. There was a certain exotic, star-crossed romance about it after all. 

Dorian, though…Dorian was something else altogether. 

Smooth, flashy, witty… _ beautiful.  _ Every visible inch seemed perfectly sculpted. His voice was richer than mead, his skin almost seemed to  _ glow _ with warmth. For all his romanticism, he didn't believe in love at first sight. But his first sight of Dorian…well, it took a man a while to recover from something like that.  _.  _

Every ounce of charm Owen could throw at him was returned with double the force. He slashed, he parried, but it seemed Dorian didn't even know he was part of a duel. He shielded himself in sarcasm and cast wit like fireballs, all without so much as a sheen of sweat forming on his perfect brow. 

A lesser man might have given up. Not Owen Trevelyan. He believed in magic. 

"New books?" Dorian exclaimed. "Just when I thought my brain was about to wither and die."

"Our budget has allowed for some arcane study," Owen said, nearly dropping an armful of priceless tomes. 

"Stop right there," Dorian ordered, "and let me help you. Why?" 

"The advisors thought it might help me to have more knowledge of magical…things. I was hoping you might help me choose some good starting material?" 

His eyes lit up like a glutton at a feast. "If you promise to take better care of them. I absolutely forbid you to carry more than three at a time."

"As you wish," Owen said with a grin. 

"Dorian." Owen slid into a seat at the Herald's Rest. "I've been meaning to ask you - just how closely related are we?" 

The mage took a sip of his drink, wrinkling his nose in elegant disgust. "I'd hardly say closely. Barely at all, and even then only by marriage."

"Oh. Good."

"Good?" Dorian swivelled in his chair. "I suppose you're right. The shame of being linked to a Tevinter mage, and all that."

"Dorian." Owen drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I've travelled, you know. I've fought in battles. Even before all this. I know you think I'm some over-excited puppy, but I want you to take me seriously."

"Where did this come from? I do take you seriously, my dear boy."

_ "Dorian," _ he said a third time. "I'd like you to take me seriously. Because I take  _ you  _ seriously." Rising from his chair, he gave Dorian a backslap that soaked his mustaches in sour wine. "Good talking to you."

When the Inquisitor had gone, Sera stuck her head over the railing. 

"Oi!" she called. "You, Dorian, are a frigging idiot."

Owen found Dorian leaning against the wall of the Gull and Lantern, staring at his finely tailored boots. 

"I suppose you think I should forgive him?" 

He joined him, tilting his face towards the sun. "I think it's up to you. Say the word and we'll leave now, and I'll never talk of it again if you don't want me to."

"But…?"

"But if you want to talk, even to say goodbye, I'll wait here."

Dorian looked at him for a long moment, then clasped his arm. "I won't be long."

"As long as you want."

"Thank you," he said softly, and straightened his spine. Then he opened the tavern door, and closed it quietly behind him. 

The kiss came as a surprise to nobody but Dorian. 

The place was perfect. Dorian's little corner of the library, filtered light streaming through the windows. Softer than Owen had dreamed of, gentler (harder kisses were to come; rough, savage, stolen-in-the-midst-of-wrestling kisses) and sweeter by far than his imagination could conjure. He captured Dorian's small sound of surprise with his mouth, then Dorian caught his bottom lip carefully between his teeth, and only one word crystallised in the back of his mind as their tongues tangled. 

_ Magic.  _

  
  



	11. Day 11: Love potion (Fenris x Merrill)

"Psst," said Varric. "There's something up with the elf."

"Which one?" Hawke asked without looking up: the last fight had left a stubborn spot of blood on his greave, and all the sand on the Wounded Coast didn't seem to be helping shift it. 

"Fenris."

"Why, what's he doing?" Hopeless. Was blood-spattered armour intimidating, or just unhygienic? 

"Staring at Merrill."

"Is he more annoyed than usual?" Setting his work aside, he craned his neck to see the elves. 

"Don't  _ look!"  _ Varric hissed. 

"I don't think he's noticed." Instead Fenris leaned his hand on his chin, watching Merrill with a kind of fascination. The other elf, for her part, was oblivious. She wrapped a length of bandage around her wrist, frowned, unwrapped, repeated. 

"Merrill," Hawke called, and both heads swivelled in his direction. "That's not an open wound, is it? You know Fenris doesn't like it when you play with blood."

Her tattooed cheeks turned pink. "It's just a sprain. I don't know if I'm wrapping it properly, it doesn't feel right."

Fenris half rose, then abruptly sat. 

"Did you want to offer some assistance, Fenris?" asked Hawke, and he scowled. 

"No. That is… No."

"That would be a no, then?" Hawke beckoned to Merrill. "Here, let me take a -" 

"I will do it." Fenris stood again, but made no attempt to go nearer. 

"Could you?" she asked him, turning her luminous green stare in his direction. Did…did Fenris  _ blush?  _ "I have no idea what I'm doing."

Scowling, he moved to her side and knelt. Hawke noticed how gingerly he took her wrist, how studiously he averted his eyes. 

"Did you get hit on the head in that last fight?" asked Varric. 

Fenris flushed. "I took an arrow to the knee. It's fine. I had a healing potion."

"You did?" Hawke asked. "I thought we'd run out. We went through all the ones I bought before the mission."

"I am capable of procuring my own potions, Hawke." Fenris yanked on the bandage, making Merrill wince. "I - I am sorry. Are you hurt?" 

"No, you didn't - it's fine." 

"I will try to be gentler."

"Can we see that potion?" asked Varric in the tone Hawke knew only too well. Varric had a suspicion, one he wasn't ready to share. 

"If you must." He dug in his pouch and produced a vial of vivid red liquid, meaning to pass it to the dwarf. 

Merrill intercepted it. "Oh, that smells terr-ible!" she said, unstopping the vial. She took an experimental swig, almost gagging at the taste. "Fenris, I don't think this is a health potion."

"Well don't drink it, Daisy!" Varric snatched it from her hand. "Euch. Orichalcum." Hawke narrowed his eyes; the dwarf was far too gleeful. 

"Spill it, Tethras."

"This," he said with a flourish, "is a love potion."

"Shut up." Hawke, in turn, swiped the vial. "Maker's breath, Fenris, it's right here on the -" 

He fell silent. Fenris turned deep crimson; having finished Merrill's bandage he stood and began pacing the campsite. Merrill bit her lip. 

Hawke quieted Varric with a hand on his arm. "What happened? Why didn't you just ask for a healing potion?"

"They were right there on the counter," Fenris snapped. "The colour was right."

"The smell didn't give it away?" Varric was unperturbed by Hawke squeezing him. "Or the taste?" 

"I had other things on my mind."

"Wait," said Merrill. "What are we talking about? Is Fenris in love with ev-erybody?" 

"Just the one body, Daisy," Varric said with a grin. 

_ "Fenhedis!"  _ swore Fenris. 

"Fenris!" Scandalised, Merrill put her fingers to her mouth. 

He scratched the back of his head, grimacing. "I'm going to cut firewood," he said. 

"We have enough -" 

"I'm  _ going."  _ And without another word, he stalked off along the cliffside path. 

"But Merrill," Hawke said, "you drank it too…"

Merrill was staring in the direction he'd left, fingertips still lingering at her lips. "I should go and see if he's alright," she said dreamily. 

"Absolutely not."

"But -" 

"I know how the two of you normally behave, and this is not it. When the potion wears off you are free to pursue whatever depraved exploits take your fancy, but I will not be responsible for your magical sex regret."

"I just meant," stammered Merrill, "shouldn't someone make sure…he does seem dreadfully un _ happy _ ."

Varric hopped down from his rock. "I'll go."

"Don't take notes," Hawke warned. 

"I can't promise!" 

The evening was long and full of sighs, and lingering glances. 

"Stop with the puppy eyes, you two." Varric's words were at odds with the glint in his eye. "We're trying to eat here."

Fenris ignored him. "I've been unkind to you. I just want you to know… I know you have a good heart."

Wide-eyed, she crossed her hands over her chest. "Oh."

"Merrill," he said, exasperated. "It's a figure of speech. I don't collect hearts. You know this, don't you?" 

"Ye-es," she squeaked. "Of course I know that. You make me nervous, that's all."

"I am sorry." He laid a hand on her arm. "That is not my intent. At least…not any more."

"No touching!" barked Hawke. 

Merrill was busy staring into Fenris's eyes. "I don't mind a little -" 

"None." 

"Could the two of you  _ please  _ insult each other?" Varric pleaded. "Just to remind us that you're not normally like this?" 

They carried on gazing at each other, shy smiles lighting up their faces. 

"Witch," Fenris said half-heartedly, and Merrill beamed. 

"Grumpy…grump," she answered, and the two of them (no, surely Fenris didn't? But he did) giggled. 

"You are my witness," Varric said to Hawke. "This actually happened."

"I will vouch for you up until the moment Fenris threatens me with death," Hawke swore. 

The fire was burning low. 

"What are we going to do with them?" 

"Elves either side of the campfire," Hawke suggested. "Each of us on the outside."

"We're not  _ animals,  _ Hawke," Fenris protested. "We can control ourselves."

"I won't risk it, Fenris. We don't need the pitter-patter of elven feet around the place. Save Merrill's, of course."

The two of them exchanged whispers and laughter. 

"It's no use, Hawke," Varric said mournfully. "They'll never believe us."

"True, Varric. But we'll always have tonight."

"Do you know what they say, Hawke?" 

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"You can't heal a dead man."

"Varric. I see where you're going, and I'm asking you not to."

"Meaning a healing potion won't work when there's nothing to heal."

"I know what it means -" 

"Meaning a love potion won't work, when -" 

"Varric, no."

Across the campfire hands were linked, and two pairs of eyes shone. 


	12. Day 12: Watching Sunset (Zevran x River Brosca)

River looked round in surprise as Zevran joined her on the rooftop. "How did you find me here?" 

"I would find you anywhere,  _ amora."  _ He settled in behind her, long legs to either side and his chin resting on the top of her head. "You are the perfect size."

"For this," she said, settling back against his chest. She was still dressed in her celebration finery: satin, brocade and the bare minimum of concealed daggers. Her richly-made slippers glittered from the top of the palace hedge. "Not so good for reaching things on high shelves, or sitting in human chairs."

"Luckily as Hero, you get a cushion to sit on." He lifted a braid out of the way and kissed her round ear. 

"Hero," she pondered. "Why am I the hero? Everyone helped."

"Because you made it happen,  _ mi amora." _

"It's not like I had a choice."

"No," he agreed. "It's not in your nature to walk away from a problem." She giggled as he pressed his face to her neck, inhaling her warm scent. 

"That's not true. I walked away from Dust Town."

"And then went back."

"I suppose you're right." Snuggling into his arms, she sighed peacefully. "I don't think I'll ever grow tired of sunsets." Westward over Denerim the tiled rooftops were kissed pink and orange; beyond, vividly-coloured clouds stretched over the darkening Bannorn. "It was night time when I first left Orzammar. I thought it must be like that all the time. All you surfacers stumbling around in the dark."

"Ah, but we do."

"Not really? Mostly you sleep at night. And use torches if you have to go places. Oh." She twisted to look up at him. "You're doing that thing again, aren't you? Metaphor."

He grinned down at her. "Correct, my River."

"I'll work it out one day."

"No." He kissed her lips tenderly. "Do not change,  _ amora _ . Do not tire of sunsets, or stars, or any of the thousand things that make your eyes sparkle. Never be afraid to be you, my perfect hero."

River reached up to his cheek, tracing the black lines on his face with careful fingers. "I can't promise the world won't change me, Zevran. It already has. But I'll still be yours." She beamed, her dark eyes shining. "Kiss me again?" 

"I'm ashamed you needed to ask,  _ mi amora,"  _ he said, and long after darkness fell they stayed in each other's arms. 


	13. Day 13: Love marks (Alistair x Briony Cousland)

  
  


"It's not fair," Briony complained. "Your skin doesn't mark half as readily as mine, _and_ your uniform covers more." She stared at the mirror in dismay, fingers trailing over her mottled neck. 

"I don't know that it's called a uniform, love. I just call it clothes." Alistair wrapped his arms around her from behind, grinning at his handiwork. "You can always remind me, you know, during…"

"You know I can't talk once you start -" She swatted at him as he kissed her neck, "that."

"Liar," he mumbled, "I just heard you talk then."

"Context is everything. And your clothes _are_ your uniform, or I know for a fact you wouldn't wear all those flowery patterns."

"I am a manly man," he said, his voice still muffled by skin, "and my masculinity threatened is not threatened by a nice floral doublet."

"Alistair, if you don't stop - nggggggh. How am I supposed to return to Amaranthine looking like I've come out in some horrible purple rash?" 

He relented with an unapologetic smile. "Tell them you were ambushed by a broodmother." 

"Bugger the writ from Weisshaupt, I'm ordering new armour. You don't see the men walking about with half their chests exposed! " 

"It's such a nice chest, though."

She glared at him in the mirror. "All the more reason to protect it. New designs for all the female Wardens in Ferelden. Wade will lose his mind with the excitement of it all."

"And they call my grandmother the Rebel Queen."

She turned on him. "Your grandmother was a hero and a great woman, don't you dare let me hear -" 

"I yield!" Alistair backed away, hands raised. "Please, oh Hero, have mercy on your wretched king."

"Wretched is right, you -" 

He tackled her onto the bed, shrieking and giggling. "It's just as well," he said as he pinned her wrists to the mattress, "that armour covers your belly." 

"Alistair Thierin -" 

"And your breasts -" 

She squirmed. "I will end you -" 

He kissed her jaw, her throat, her clavicle. "Your back, your thighs…"

"You have engagements, you know," she protested, although she could feel her legs turning to liquid. 

"I'm the king," he breathed in her ear. "I can do what I want."

"And - oh, no, that's cheating, ohhh - what about my engagements?" 

"You're Commander of the Grey," he purred. "You. Can. Do. What. You. Want."

There didn't seem to be any room for argument, not when he kissed her neck and ohhhhh - 

They were late. But then, people knew they mostly did what they wanted. 


	14. Day 14: Nsfw (Anders x Alyse Hawke)

The outside lantern burned weakly; the door was ajar, but inside the clinic all was silent. Hawke's heart skipped for a second that felt like hours; then she caught sight of the hunched figure in the corner, scrubbing his hands over a basin. His coat and feathered pauldrons were draped over the back of a chair, and his shoulder blades stood out starkly beneath his linen shirt. 

"You shouldn't sit there," he said wearily as she perched on the side of the sickbed. "We've had a bad case of frost-cough and I haven't changed the sheets yet."

She shrugged. "I've sat in worse at the Hanged Man."

"And you say I'm careless with my safety." Anders turned, finally, and she bit her tongue at the gauntness of his features, the shadows beneath his eyes. 

Neither of them appreciated a fuss. 

"Checking up on me?" 

"You didn't come home."

 _"Home,"_ he echoed bitterly. 

"Nobody's forcing you to live there, Anders. I just thought you might sleep better without constantly worrying about templars kicking down your door. But your door is open and you don't appear to have slept in a week, so I suppose I was wrong on both counts."

"I'm sorry," he said in a tone that meant _I don't have the strength for an argument._ "You know I find it strange sharing a house with your mother. And your _servants."_

She caught the edge of distaste. _Let it go,_ she thought. Instead she found herself saying, "I give them a place to live, Anders. They're paid well. There's no need for one of your lectures." 

"It's charity then?" He dried his hands on a cloth, clean but greying. "Why not just invite them to live there, if that's the case?" 

"Because they wouldn't accept it." Bodahn, staying under her roof as a guest? Orana, who still protested each wage packet? It was laughable. "They have too much pride."

He crossed his arms. "I see. Pride? What does that say about me?" 

She sighed, raking her hands through her dark hair. "I didn't come here to fight."

Anders slumped against the bench. "Rubbish," he said. "You're Alyse Hawke. Fighting is the only reason you go anywhere." His mouth curled in the shadow of a smile: it was a peace offering, and she accepted it gladly. 

"That's not fair." She leaned back on her hands, inching her knees apart. "I do have _other_ interests."

He laughed. "Trust you to try and seduce me on a sickbed."

She bit her lip enticingly. "Is it working?" 

"Is that a serious question?" He closed the space between them, one hand tangling in her hair as the other dragged her hips flush with his. He always kissed her like the first time: a starved, needy kiss with his whole soul behind it, a sensory onslaught that left her molten from the waist down. When they finally broke apart both their lips were swollen, their eyes glazed. 

"I didn't mean to worry you," he sighed, half-breathless. "It can't have been worse than when you go out on a job without me." His lips dragged from the corner of her mouth to her pulse, stubble scratching pleasantly at her jaw. 

"I know you sleep down here when I'm away," she murmured. 

"Your bed is too big without you in it."

She scratched lightly at his scalp. "So you know how I feel, waiting for you." Her fingers worked at the thong in his hair until it spilled free around his hollow face. "Come home."

"I'm not going to make it that far."

"Oh?" She leaned back to look in his eyes, a ring of hazel barely visible around his wide pupils. "Too tired?" 

"Quite the opposite." He stepped free from the circle of her legs, tugging her down from the bed. "Let's go out the back where the sheets are cleaner."

Smiling giddily, she followed him. "I hope the sheets are the only _clean_ thing you have in mind."

They were in the dimly lit back room before Anders remembered the door. "Wait here," he said. 

"I think you have all my exits covered," she called after him. _Oh, Anders._ This room always seemed bigger in her memory; brighter, less sparsely furnished. The roof was so low she could probably put her palms flat on the ceiling; the only furniture was a rickety cot ( _of course,_ his patients got the better bed) and a crate behind a tiny writing desk. 

"Right, now that's - oh." He paused in the doorway, mouth ajar. 

"Did I read this wrong?" She scratched one bare calf with the opposite foot. "Was I not supposed to take my clothes off?" 

"I just don't know how you do it so _fast_. All those straps…" He took two steps and slid his hands under her tunic, exploring the expanse of bare skin beneath. "You've got me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid. Unless…"

"Unless…?" 

He answered with a feral grin, walking her back until her shoulders bumped the wall. "Unless." He sank to his knees on the rushes, thumbs hooking in her smalls and dragging them down. 

At the first sweep of his tongue she arched, a hand tangling in his hair and the other - yes, she _could_ put her palm flat on the ceiling, and she heard the boards groan as she pressed against them. Incoherent, broken noises began to spill from her lips; her hips rose to meet him. No, not _rose_ : this was the _wall_ at her back. It was becoming difficult to tell which way was down; gravity seemed less relevant with each passing second. 

This was no chore for Anders. He _feasted_ , his greedy noises of satisfaction vibrating between her thighs as his hungry mouth worked at her sex. Tension coiled low and hot in her belly; her head began to swim. A single finger found her slick entrance, then another: they pressed their slow way inside her and _buzzed_. 

"Anders!" she cried in shock, pulling his hair sharply. He looked up hazily. 

"What?" 

"I don't -" His fingers inside her still vibrated faintly; it made words difficult. "What are you -" She groaned. " _Stop_."

He frowned, wet fingers sliding free. "It doesn't feel good?" 

_Good_ didn't begin to describe it. "We haven't talked about - whatever that was."

"I just want to make you come."

"You do. All the time."

"But it can be better."

"I want _you_ , Anders. Not some bloody novelty act." Shit. Was she really about to turn transcendent sex into another fight? 

But Anders was thoughtful, playing with the hem of her tunic. "I get the benefit of your…talents." He trailed his fingers over her muscled thighs; kissed the hard planes of her belly with reverence. "Do I have to deprive you of mine?" 

Hawke couldn't help but grin. "Come here," she ordered, pulling him to his feet. "You have plenty of talents." Freeing his erection from the confines of his breeches, she hooked a leg over one of his narrow hips and took him inside her. 

"Hawke," he groaned against her neck. "You're killing me." He began to move, then to thrust: slow and sharp, pounding her inexorably against the rough stone wall. Pulling up her tunic, he bent to kiss and suck at her breasts. White-hot bursts of pleasure coursed through her bloodstream; teeth scraped at her nipple and she arched, crying out his name. 

Hawke's desire coiled tighter with every roll of his hips, the maddening friction of him moving within her at once _perfect_ and _not enough, more, more_ and she scrabbled desperately beneath his shirt, nails raking his back, fingers digging in to drive him deeper.

"You make me crazy," he gasped. 

"I don't think…" She threw her head back, hitting the wall with a thud. "I can take all the credit for that."

" _You_ can talk." He bit at her neck, sharp enough to bruise, and laved the mark with his tongue. His fingers slipped between them, tips resting just at the apex of her sex as he kept moving inside her. "Let me make you feel good," he murmured. "Please."

Any reservations she might have had were lost in the fog of lust. "Yes," she cried, greedy for release. "Oh yes, _yesyesyes_..."

Magic _hummed_ against her clit and she jerked, coming with an intensity that was almost painful. His release chased hers, a shuddering, roaring finish that left them both dazed, a flushed, sticky pile of limbs on the dingy floor. 

"See?" He smirked as an aftershock made her twitch against him. "I was right, wasn't I?" 

Hawke batted his chest feebly, unable to form words. 

"We'd better not try that at home," he continued. "You can't scream like that in Hightown, the guard would come running. Imagine explaining that to Aveline."

"Shut up," she said weakly. "Come here." She drew his head down to her breast, keenly aware of how her heart fluttered in her rib cage. She kissed each of his thin wrists. "You're coming home for dinner."

He sniggered. "I already ate."

"Idiot."

Anders sighed, curling up in her arms. "I'm so tired, Hawke."

"I know," she said, kissing the top of his head. "I know."


End file.
